


I'll give you everything

by biblionerd07



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Concerts, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-01
Updated: 2015-04-01
Packaged: 2018-03-20 18:59:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3661383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biblionerd07/pseuds/biblionerd07
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack doesn't like throwing his last name around to get things, but if it means Bittle gets to meet Beyonce, well...he can't not do it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll give you everything

**Author's Note:**

> The title, of course, comes from Queen Bey--XO.

Bittle’s had tickets to see Beyoncé at Madison Square Garden for months, since the minute tickets went on sale. He bought the tickets _in class_ , which is uncharacteristic of Bittle, but, well, it’s Beyoncé. That had been the only explanation Jack got when he raised an eyebrow at Bittle’s computer. And a hissed promise that the concert isn’t until _May_ and playoffs would definitely be over by then so, not to worry, there would be no interference with his game.

And Jack knows Bittle didn’t get the best tickets. He’s a college student, after all, and it’s not like these things come cheap. He certainly didn’t get backstage passes, that’s for sure, with a spot at the meet-and-greet after the concert, complete with autographs.

Jack knows someone who could help with that. Well, Bad Bob knows someone who could help with that, but it’s not like the GM of the Rangers, who’s on the board for Madison Square Garden, doesn’t know who Jack is. Sure, Jack doesn’t know him as well as he knows other GMs—his dad never played for the Rangers, after all—but Bob won multiple Stanley Cups and Jack’s about to enter the NHL. Slats knows him.

Honestly, it seems like the least Jack could do for Bittle. They play so in sync together that Jack just knows this season wouldn’t have been half as successful without him. Plus Bittle’s birthday is in May. So it’s not that hard to make the call, choke down his awkwardness for a five minute conversation, even bring up his dad’s name a time or two. It’s definitely worth it for the completely blank face Bittle makes when Jack carelessly tosses the tickets toward him one night right before playoffs, struggling not to fidget and watch Bittle too much.

“What is this?” Bittle asks, the pitch of his voice rising as he realizes what it is.

Jack shrugs. “Figured you’d appreciate them more than me.”

“ _How_ did you get these?” Bittle shrieks. Jack holds in a little wince. He figured Bittle’s excitement would be astronomical. But of course, when Jack opens his mouth, trying to think of a nonchalant way to say _I called in a favor_ , his brain takes a different course.

“Well, I haven’t signed yet, so some teams are trying to give me perks as an incentive.” Jack doesn’t know why he just lied. Well, no, he has an idea of why he just lied—the thought of actually telling Bittle that he noticed the concert, knows how much it would mean to him, remembers when his birthday is, and got him the tickets makes Jack want to throw up.

“The Rangers? I mean I get why they’d want you but were they even in the running?” Shitty asks incredulously. Jack hasn’t even met with anyone from the Rangers. The only conversation he’s had with anyone connected with the Rangers was this one, to get the tickets. Jack swallows hard and commands himself to keep his cool.

“I guess they thought it wouldn’t hurt to try,” he says, all forced nonchalance. Shitty narrows his eyes but, thankfully, before he can say anything else, Bittle takes a page right out of Shitty’s book and _tackles_ Jack. It’s a hug, technically, but it’s a tackle, realistically.

“Jack— _oh my goodness_ , I can’t— _thank you_ , Jack, I can’t even talk!”

“How would your dad feel about your tackling form, eh?” Jack laughs. Bittle doesn’t even dignify the subpar chirp with a response, just goes on trying to squeeze Jack’s insides out.

“I’ll make a peanut butter and jelly _pie_ for you before games,” Bittle babbles. “I’ll find some Canadian pie recipe—I have my doubts about what y’all eat but I’ll _do_ it, Jack, thank you so much.”

“Okay, you’re welcome,” Jack says, feeling a little awkward now with his back on the ground and Bittle holding tight to him. Shitty keeps raising his eyebrows up and down and his mustache is ruffling sort of ominously, and Jack can’t take it. “You should call Chowder or Lardo or whoever.”

“What?” Bittle asks.

“You know, like, whoever you’re going with,” Jack explains, slightly hesitant at the manic look in Bittle’s eyes.

“Oh, _no_ way, Jack Zimmermann, you are _not_ trying to suggest I’m taking anyone else,” Bittle scolds. “You’re coming with me.”

“To a concert?” Jack tries to protest, kind of, even though he’s not all that opposed to a long drive together and seeing Bittle’s enthusiasm, but Bittle just steamrolls him.  
  
“Of _course_ you’re coming with me! The tickets are because of you! Oh good _Lord_ , what am I going to wear to _meet Beyoncé_?” He shrieks again, high pitched and too close to Jack’s ear for comfort, but Jack honestly can’t even drudge up even a bit of annoyance. He even laughs a little, just a little exhalation through his nose Parse used to tease him about, called him Mr. Ed because he said it reminded him of a horse, and when Jack was feeling light enough he’d neigh back. It hadn’t happened all that often after about age seventeen, when Jack was almost never feeling light at all.

Bittle’s sitting up now, hair mussed from where he’d been pressed against Jack’s side, and his face is flushed, eyes wide. He keeps covering his mouth and then moving his hands to gesture and then going back to covering his mouth. But then he rounds on Jack.

“Oh no, what are _you_ going to wear?” He sounds dangerous. Jack’s eyes dart to Shitty for help. He gets only a grin through the mustache for his troubles.

“Um, jeans?” He guesses.

“ _Jeans_ ,” Bittle echoes. “This boy.”

“I don’t—are jeans not okay for a concert?”

“This is not _just_ a concert!” Bittle scolds. “This is a defining moment in our _lives_.”

“Oh. Well,” Jack starts, schooling his face into innocence. “If it’s a defining moment, I guess I better wear a hockey jersey.”

Bittle gives him a wild-eyed stare for one second before his eyes go narrow. “I will not have you chirping me right now, Mr. Zimmermann. You have completely overwhelmed me and I simply cannot have it.” He pokes at Jack’s stomach and then stands up. “I gotta call Mama Bittle.”

He thunders up the stairs, pausing to turn around and yell, yet again, “Thank you, Jack!”

Jack smiles at it, just a small smile, for a second, before he realizes Shitty is staring intensely at the side of his face.

“Brah,” Shitty says, shaking his head so vehemently his hair flops around his shoulders. “I didn’t realize. How did I miss it?”

“What?” Jack keeps his voice flat.

“Oh, you’ve got it bad, Jack Laurent Fucking Lovesick Puppy Zimmermann. Real bad.”

“Shitty, don’t—” Jack blows out a shaky breath. He should have known people would talk. Of course they would—this is a huge gesture. Everyone’s going to see right through him. How could he be so stupid? He didn’t think this through enough. He feels his muscles tense up. Shitty comes close and wraps Jack up in his arms, winding his legs around him for good measure. At least he’s wearing shorts.

“Shh,” Shitty hushes, stroking Jack’s stubble from his playoff beard and pushing Jack’s head against his chest. “This is beautiful.”

“Stop,” Jack demands, halfheartedly struggling to get away.

“Accept my love and then accept his love.”

“ _Stop_ ,” Jack repeats, firmer this time. The word _love_ is making his palms sweat and Shitty’s said it three times now.

“Okay, I’m sorry,” Shitty soothes without letting go of Jack even a bit. “I’m not going to say a word to anyone. And I’m not going to chirp you. I’m just going to hold you closer, tiny dancer, and feel so proud of you.”

“I…” Jack finally just snorts and shrugs. There’s no fighting Shitty when he’s like this, and Jack doesn’t really know what to say. He can’t say Shitty’s wrong about the situation. Maybe the love part. Or maybe not. Jack actually lets Shitty hug him for a minute and then wriggles some more until Shitty finally lets him go. Shitty pretends to wipe a tear from his eye.

“My baby boy is growing up.”

“I’m two years older than you.”

“Hush, my perfect-assed son. Go to bed.”

  
“Make way, _national champs_ coming through!” Lardo yells out across the quad. A bunch of random people start cheering.

“Lardo, it’s been like two weeks,” Jack points out, even though he’s smiling. He can’t _not_ smile when he thinks about their win. “You don’t have to keep saying that.”

“What, I can’t be proud of my boys?” She protests. “And by the way, I’m so grateful the NHL seems to think Beyoncé tickets are a perk for a prospective player, since Bits gave me and Shits his old tickets for tonight.”

She’s got an eyebrow raised at him and Jack licks his lips uncomfortably. “Yeah,” is all he ends up saying.

“Well, everyone loves Beyoncé,” Bittle chimes in at Jack’s elbow. “Even NHL stars.”

“True,” Jack says on autopilot, distracted enough that he doesn’t correct Bittle calling him an NHL star prematurely. Lardo’s watching him close enough to make his eyes dart away, but then Bittle starts rehashing the plan for the concert and Lardo switches into planning mode.

It’s a three and a half hour drive to New York, and Bittle makes them listen to Beyoncé the whole way.

“But aren’t we going to hear all these songs tonight?” Jack asks.

“Standard concert rules!” Shitty yells from the driver’s seat, swatting at Jack’s hand as he tries to lean forward from the back and reach the radio.

“It’s musical pre-gaming!” Bittle explains, and his eyes are so bright, his smile’s so wide, that Jack can’t help but smile and shrug.

“Well, okay,” he concedes, ignoring the look Shitty and Lardo exchange. Bittle’s been prepping him all week, making him watch music videos and live footage so he knows what to expect tonight.

He did not help Jack prepare for the fact that Bittle’s wearing jeans a bit tighter than he usually wears, nice jeans that he just bought and saved for this very occasion, and a bright red shirt that makes his blond hair look golden in the late spring sun. Jack wishes he’d brought his camera. The light streaming in from the dirty car window makes Bittle look like some kind of Renaissance angel. Jack winces internally at himself. He’s losing it.

Bittle had looked critically at Jack’s blue button-up shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows—admittedly, not exactly a novel ensemble, since he wears it kind of regularly—but he’d nodded, satisfied, even smiling a little.

“The blue certainly brings out your eyes nicely,” he’d said, standing there in the doorway of Jack’s room, and luckily he was so excited about getting on the road that he’d missed Jack’s blush at his words. It might have been why Jack had chosen that particular shirt.

Jack is wrenched back into the present by Bittle’s voice beside him asking the driver to roll up the partition, please, and Jack gulps a little. Bittle’s just singing along, but the song’s a bit suggestive, and Jack kinda starts thinking about if they really did have a partition—

He clears his throat quietly and goes back to looking out the window.

Shitty and Lardo cheerfully wave and head off toward the nosebleeds once they get inside, and Jack anxiously keeps close Bittle as they wade through the crowd to their seats in the front. There’s so many people, and Bittle’s so small, and Jack’s afraid of losing him. They’re early enough that they have to wait around for a little while, but it’s kind of nice, stretching his legs out and watching Bittle text it all. His followers, he’d told Jack, are very jealous.

Jack’s chirping Bittle for being obsessed with his phone, as usual, and Bittle’s sassing back, of course, when Jack feels a hand on his shoulder and looks up and sees one of the guys on the Madison Square Garden board, the one responsible for live entertainment.

“Mr. Zimmermann!” He says. “I can’t tell you how excited we are to have you here.”

“Oh,” Jack says awkwardly. “Thanks.”

“I have to admit, I was a little surprised when Glen told me you asked for the tickets,” he goes on. Jack feels his stomach drop as Bittle whips his head around to look at Jack. “I didn’t realize hockey players liked Beyoncé!” He’s totally oblivious to Jack’s distress. Jack can feel how red his face is, all the way up to the tips of his ears.

“Um, well, everyone loves Beyoncé,” Jack mumbles.

“True,” he chuckles. “Well, you make sure to tell your father we took good care of you, would you please?”

“I will,” Jack promises, and then it’s just him and Bittle. He studiously avoids Bittle’s eyes, squinting at the stage.

“Jack?” Bittle sounds almost breathless. Jack leans down to pretend to tie his shoe. “You said you got the tickets from the team.”

“Well,” Jack starts, then pauses. “I mean, the manager of the team is the one who got them for me.”

“You got them for me?” Bittle asks, the awe in his voice making Jack’s stomach flip. “On purpose? You pulled the Zimmermann card for me?”

“Happy birthday?” Jack ventures, still bent over. And then Bittle’s hugging him, not the violent tackle when Jack first gave him the tickets, but a gentle arm around Jack’s shoulders, pressing the sides of their heads together, and Jack has to close his eyes for a second to take it in.

“Thank you, Jack,” Bittle whispers. Jack’s got butterflies in his stomach so bad he wonders if he’s having some kind of medical emergency, but it’s just the feel of Bittle pressed close to him, the gratitude in Bittle’s voice, the naked affection in Bittle’s eyes when Jack gathers the courage to glance at him.

“Anytime, Eric,” Jack manages to say. He means it.

Bittle’s excitement doesn’t dampen, obviously, but it’s different now, the smiles he keeps sending Jack’s way softer, the bouncing in his seat bringing him closer to Jack each time to bump their shoulders together. Jack feels like his heart’s going to bust out of his ribs. The opening band is fine, but this isn’t really the type of music Jack usually listens to. It’s all very Bittle music: upbeat and dance-worthy, the kind Bittle shimmies around the kitchen to while he’s baking. Jack’s mom used to complain about how all of Jack’s music was so depressing.

She doesn’t mention that anymore.

But then there’s Beyoncé, and Bittle’s practically vibrating beside Jack, and Jack has to admit, she puts on a good show. Bittle even catches him mouthing along with the words when she sings the halo song. Jack nudges Bittle, wondering if he remembers Jack calling to ask about the song over winter break.

He’d guess yes, by the dazzling grin he gets in return.

After the concert, they hurry to the line for the meet and greet, and Bittle keeps fidgeting with his hair and standing on his tiptoes to try to see Beyoncé sooner. He cranes his neck and fusses with the hem of his shirt and one hand flies to the back of his head, where his most stubborn cowlick lives.

“Don’t worry, it looks good,” Jack says, sounding more sincere than he’d meant to. He’d meant to say _fine_ instead of _good_. Bittle blushes and Jack feels his own face go red in response.

“Thanks,” Bittle murmurs, ducking his head a little and smiling.

The line’s not too bad, and then they’re in front of her. Honestly, Jack’s not really star struck. Sure, she’s pretty, but she’s just a singer—it’s not like she plays hockey or anything. But Jack keeps these thoughts to himself, because he’s smart enough not to go and tell Bittle it’s _just_ Beyoncé. Bittle calls her Queen Bey with complete sincerity.

“Hi,” she greets them with a big smile, and Jack starts to worry Bittle’s going to hyperventilate.

“Hello, Ms. Knowles,” Bittle stutters out. She laughs a little and Bittle gulps. “I, um. I wanted to bring you a pie, because I love to bake pies, but I couldn’t figure out how to get it in the arena.” His accent’s coming out a little thicker with his nerves and Jack has to bite his lip to keep from smiling.

“Really?” She asks. “I love pie.”

“He’s the best pie maker,” Jack says, ready and willing to go to bat for Bittle. “He makes pies for our team all the time.”

“What do y’all play?” She asks, and Bittle sighs a little at the word _y’all_.

“Hockey,” Jack says, because this is something he can talk about easily. “We’re on the Samwell men’s hockey team.”

“Oh, for real?” She sounds impressed. Jack likes her more. “Didn’t you just win nationals? I saw it on TV.”

“Yeah, we played hard.” Just because she knows they won doesn’t mean she knows anything real about hockey, and Jack learned long ago that anyone who hasn’t actively engaged him in hockey talk will probably just get that glazed-eyed look if he says too much.

“Jack had a hat trick,” Bittle adds, still sounding a little faint. “And he’s the captain.”

“Well,” Jack shrugs. “Bittle assisted two of those goals.”

“So you guys make a good team,” she says, and Jack searches her face. Is she trying to say something? But Bittle looks a little anxious, like he’s worried about Jack’s answer, and Jack resists the urge to roll his eyes only because Bittle’s not exactly in his right mind at the moment. As if Jack could deny the truth of that statement.

“Yeah,” Jack says. “We do.”

She smiles and they take a picture with her, and then Jack takes a picture of her with just Bittle, and then she starts signing the poster Bittle brought.

“You hockey players sure have nice muscles,” she compliments, smirking a little.

“We eat a lot of protein,” Jack offers.

“I’m still working on my squats,” Bittle blurts, looking horrified as the words leave his mouth. “Trying to get that booty.” He winces and Jack starts laughing. Maybe it’s kind of mean, since he’s so embarrassed, but Jack can’t help it. Bittle’s talking to his idol about his ass.

Beyoncé winks at Bittle. “I think you’re doing alright,” she promises. Bittle kind of looks like he’s going to pass out, enough that Jack actually puts a hand on his back just in case. She hands Bittle his poster and says, “Maybe sometime I can try your pie. You make sweet potato?”

“He can make any kind of pie,” Jack brags.

“I’m a southern boy,” Bittle defends himself, forgetting his nervousness in defense of his pies and his southern pride. “Of course I can make sweet potato pie.”

“That’s what I like to hear!” She says, and then they’re being ushered away. Jack has to steer Bittle, who’s so dazed he’s not even chirping Jack for bringing up protein.

It takes a while to get through the crowd and find Shitty and Lardo, and Bittle stops and buys a t-shirt. Jack buys one, too, and Bittle’s mouth actually drops open in shock. Jack shrugs.

“I liked the concert,” he says. Bittle’s cheeks go a little red, like maybe he knows exactly what Jack means, and Jack feels those butterflies in his stomach again.

It’s midnight by the time they start the drive back to Samwell, but Bittle’s totally amped up. He tells Shitty and Lardo every single word Beyoncé said, and they both give him high-fives when he tells them about Beyoncé basically complimenting his hockey butt. They listen to even more Beyoncé on the way home, but Jack doesn’t complain. That reminds Bittle that he caught Jack singing along, and of course he rats Jack out.

“We have a real fan on our hands,” he reveals with a saucy little eyebrow raise that makes Jack want to laugh. “Mr. Zimmermann here knows all the words to Halo.”

“Jack, you beaut, you’ve been holding out on us!” Shitty yells.

“I got a picture of it,” Bittle confesses. “I didn’t tweet it, in case you didn’t want me to.”

“Wow, Bits, that’s restraint,” Lardo laughs. “You usually live-tweet life.”

“I don’t mind,” Jack admits with a little smile.

“You don’t?” Lardo asks.

“Who am I to discourage a budding photographer?” Jack jokes. “Someone’s got to keep it up in the Haus after I’m gone.”

The smile slips off Bittle’s and Lardo’s faces for a second, and Jack feels like someone threw ice water on him. Why’d he have to go and mention graduating now? It had been such a good night. He’d even thought Bittle might—well, it doesn’t matter. Now he’s just reminded Bittle he’s leaving in a few weeks. He could end up close, in Providence, or he could end up in Canada.

Shitty drops them off at the Haus and goes to take Lardo home. The Haus is dark and quiet—it’s almost four am. Jack knows he’s going to be exhausted in the morning; it’s not even a weekend, and he knows all too well how much lack of sleep can mess with his head, but he can’t bring himself to regret it. It was such a good night.

He and Bittle walk up the stairs together in companionable silence, and Bittle pauses in the space between their doors.

“Thank you, Jack,” he says, for probably the ten millionth time.

“You’re welcome,” Jack responds. “I actually had fun, eh?”

“Oh, goodness, someone alert the media,” Bittle chirps. Jack rolls his eyes. Bittle bites his lip, looking down, and then he darts in close to Jack, pops up onto his tiptoes, and presses a light kiss onto Jack’s lips.

“Goodnight, Jack,” he whispers, going over to his room.

“Night,” Jack echoes, sounding as stunned as he feels. Bittle looks back over his shoulder, smiling and blushing, and Jack feels his own mouth turn up into a smile. He keeps smiling when he goes into his room and falls asleep with the smile firmly in place.

If he starts humming Beyoncé a little more, well, no one can really blame him. Everyone loves Beyoncé.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, I have no idea when Jack would have to make a decision and sign with a team. I don't know if there's a deadline for that? All I could find was that training camps start in September, so...sometime before then, obviously. I also don't know if teams are allowed to give gifts as incentives. I know NCAA scouts can't, but if NHL players are going to get paid anyway maybe they can. JUST BEAR WITH ME OKAY?


End file.
